


Ennui

by bittergreens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Sherlock, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock is a Brat, Slash, Top John, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the only cure for boredom is rough sex.</p>
<p>In which Sherlock is a little shit and we learn that everyone has a breaking point, even John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ennui

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ennui](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021600) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> Thanks to sev313 for beta-ing once again. :)

“It won’t be much longer now. I can feel it. This is the end.”

Sherlock’s voice drifted up from where he was lying upside down on the far end of the couch. For reasons unknown to John, several hours ago Sherlock had violently wrenched it around to face the wall.

John ignored him. He was conducting an experiment to see if ignoring Sherlock had any effect on shutting him up. So far, the results were abysmal. 

He had arrived home early that morning after working a night shift at the surgery, exhausted, his body aching, desperate for a few hours sleep, to find the sheets and blankets stripped from his bed and soaking with all the other linens in the house in a strange smelling-vat in the kitchen.

“Don’t touch it!” Sherlock had yelled from his position on the couch. “I’m testing them all for plankton toxicity. They can’t be disturbed for at least six hours.”

John had been too exhausted to argue. “Where are the pillows?”

“Oh, I gutted those. I needed the feathers.”

It was not made clear what dark purpose the feathers had been made to serve because John did not ask.

He had been planning on simply curling up on his bare mattress but Sherlock had continued to yell at him from the living room until he had come back downstairs. He had given up on sleep, made a pot of coffee, and decided to read the paper. Sherlock had lapsed into a rather longish bout of sullen silence, and he had just started to feel hopeful about never hearing Sherlock’s voice again when this started up.

“I never thought I would go like this.”

John didn’t look up from his paper. “Shall I fetch your smelling salts, Lady Gwendolyn?”

“You think I’m joking. I’m not joking.”

John turned the page. “You can’t actually die from boredom, you know.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Yes, what do I know? It’s not as if I’m a medical professional.” Out of the corner of his eye, John could see one limp wrist dangling over the end of the couch.

“I can feel the life energy leaking out of me as my brain atrophies. Soon I won’t be able to move at all.”

John flicked another page of his paper without looking up. “Shall we build a pillow fort? Seems you’ve already started work on one without me…”

Sherlock sat up abruptly and glared across the room. “Ha, ha. Very funny, John! How can you have no sympathy for the deterioration of such a great mind? It’s all well and good for small-brained people like you who can entertain themselves with the Daily Mail, but some of us don’t have the luxury of simple pleasures!”

John turned another page disinterestedly. “Battleship then?”

“Uh, you’re useless!” Sherlock flopped down out of sight with a huff.

“I thought you had something going in the microwave. Mold spores, was it?”

“I finished that ages ago. _Eadem sunt omnia semper._ ”

John re-focused on his paper but the silence coming from the couch was so loud he found he couldn’t concentrate.

“What’s that then?”

“ _All things continue the same for ever._ ”

“Mm.”

John enjoyed the ensuing several minutes of silence before Sherlock’s voice rose up from the sofa in an incantatory wail. 

“ ‘O man, the lights of the world, Scipio, Homer, Epicurus, are dead; wilt thou hesitate and fret at dying, whose life is wellnigh dead whilst thou art yet alive; who consumest in sleep the greater part of thy span, and when awake dronest and ceasest not to dream; and carriest about a mind troubled with baseless fear, and canst not find what it is that aileth thee when thou staggerest like a drunken wretch in the press of thy cares, and welterest hither and thither in the unsteady wandering of thy spirit!’”

John stood up. “Right then.”

“Lucretius. Not my translation.”

“We’re going out.”

“I told you, John. I can’t _move._ ”

“Nope. You haven’t left the flat in three days and I don’t think you’ve changed out of that dressing gown in a week. Now you’re reciting Latin poetry. This has gone on far too long.”

Sherlock’s voice was bitterly amused. “Oh, now he takes me seriously, when I try and impart a little cultural—”

John pulled sharply on the blanket Sherlock was laying on, effectively rolling Sherlock onto the floor. Sherlock gave a squawk of indignant surprise and then leapt to his feet. 

“Come on. Get dressed.”

“How dare you!”

“It’s a beautiful day outside.”

Sherlock made a noise like a cat that was about to be sick.

John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and began steering him toward the landing. “Who knows? Maybe once we’re outside we’ll find some nice murders.”

“BORING!” Sherlock yelled.

“Look, your legs are working just fine. What a pleasant surprise.”

With a frantic pin wheeling motion, Sherlock whirled out of John’s grip and ran around behind the couch. “You can’t make me leave.”

John shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. 

“You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do!”

“Oh, really?” John felt anger simmering in his chest. It was rare, the moments when he genuinely grew fed up with Sherlock’s antics, but this, _this_ was the result of days of Sherlock’s whining and languishing around the flat. John had found him prostrate on nearly every piece of furniture in the last week, including the stove. Lying with his arm thrown over his eyes, forecasting his imminent demise if a case didn’t surface soon. He had very nearly turned the burner on with his impassioned flailing and it was only luck that John had found him before he accidentally set himself on fire. “Do you _really_ want to make that claim right now?”

Sherlock rose to his full height and stuck his chin in the air. “Make me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead and try.”

John pushed his sleeves up his elbows. “Right. You asked for it.”

He charged around the side of the couch and locked his arms around Sherlock’s waist. With a grunt, he hoisted him off his feet and into the air. Sherlock let out a yell of protest.

He was much heavier than John had anticipated—how could someone that was literally just bones and sinew weigh so much? He made it halfway across the living room floor before Sherlock delivered an expertly executed jab to the back of his knees and John went down like a ton of bricks, dragging Sherlock with him.

He landed on his knees and then fell forward on top of Sherlock.

“Get off! You’re crushing me!”

Sherlock flailed ineffectually to try and get free, and in the process, jabbed a pointy elbow into John’s ribs.

John let out a shout of pain and seized Sherlock by his wrists. It was not difficult to force Sherlock’s arms up over his head, and pin his wrists to the floor.

John looked down at Sherlock, breathing hard. “Stop. Flailing.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his blue eyes bright with defiance. “Or what? What will you do to me?”

John’s torso was arched over Sherlock’s, his legs on either side of Sherlock’s hips. Currently, it wasn’t taking much effort to keep him there but Sherlock had also temporarily refrained from flailing.

“I’ll sit on you.”

Sherlock lifted his chin. How he could look so imperious with John practically sitting on his chest was a mystery to John. He fought the urge to smack the smug expression right off his face. “You think I couldn’t get up if I wanted to?”

John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s wrists and dug his knees in on either side of Sherlock. “No.” His voice was a growl. “No, I don’t think you could.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. With a snake-like movement, he tried to twist sideways out from under John’s legs but John hung onto Sherlock’s wrists and bore down on him with his hips. 

He writhed for another moment under John’s weight and John saw a flicker of frustration cross his face. John grinned down at him, unmoving. His grip on Sherlock’s wrists was like steel. “What did I tell you?”

Sherlock glared up at him. He was out of breath from struggling. His dressing gown was bunched up beneath him and the t-shirt he had on underneath had been wrenched halfway up his chest. John found himself staring at the pale curve of Sherlock’s exposed ribcage, watching the rise and fall of his belly as he drew breath. “Who says I was really trying?”

John smirked. “Oh, please, as if you’d put up with being pinned this long just to—”

Without warning, Sherlock slammed his forehead up into John’s mouth. He reared back and Sherlock used the opportunity to wrap his legs around John’s and flip him over onto his back, effectively reversing their positions.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to grin smugly down at John. He could taste blood in his mouth. John was so angry he could see stars on the periphery of his vision.

“Well, look at that.” Sherlock had John’s wrists in his hands, the silk of his dressing gown fluttering out behind him to pool over John’s legs. He bent down so his mouth was at John’s ear. “I told you, you couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want. And I’ve proven my point.”

John’s voice was a low snarl. “You’d better not let go of my wrists if you want to live to see another day.”

“Oooh, threats! How ambitious.” Sherlock’s breath was warm against John’s ear. “However, judging from your current position, I really don’t think you can afford to make any.” 

John could feel adrenaline pounding through him. He clenched his fists in Sherlock’s grip. “This time I mean it. I really might kill you. Sleep deprivation will do that to a person. Make them homicidal.” 

He felt Sherlock shift against him and was surprised again by how substantial Sherlock felt in spite of his narrow frame. His weight was warm and heavy on John’s hips and John suddenly realized, to his horror, that he could feel _a lot more_ of Sherlock than he was prepared for through the thin material of his pajama bottoms.

“Don’t be tedious, John.” Sherlock let out an exasperated breath against John’s neck. John stiffened at the sensation. “Is this about the bed sheets? I told you, you only have to wait five more hours.”

John fought to keep his body under control. Sherlock had pulled back from John’s ear, but now John couldn’t stop staring at the long pale expanse of Sherlock’s throat above him. He could see the grooves of Sherlock’s collarbones where his t-shirt hung down. John concentrated on his rage. “This is about more than just bed sheets! This is about you moping around the flat for the past week making my life a living nightmare!”

Sherlock’s expression turned pouty for a moment and then brightened. “Oh really?” He ducked back down to John’s other ear, his voice taunting. “I thought this was about the fact that I just beat you, _Captain._ ” He ground his hips down into John’s for emphasis. John let out a hiss that Sherlock mistook for anger. “You’re just a sore loser.”

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, his weight shifting again, and with that motion, it was all over. John’s mind went blank with panic. How was Sherlock not noticing? Thankfully, he took that moment to lean forward into his hands, lifting his hips off of John’s. 

“You know, what? I changed my mind. I’m actually not that angry. I think you should just let me up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, John. I’m not an idiot. No. I won, so I get to call the shots. Now you have to do what I say.”

“Fine. I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me get up.”

Sherlock leaned back and studied him, considering. “I don’t think I will. I like having you like this.”

“Sherlock, I’m not joking. Let me up.”

“No.”

John’s fists jerked in Sherlock’s grip. “ _Sherlock._ ”

There was a faint crease between Sherlock’s eyebrows as he looked down at John. Sherlock settled his weight back on John’s thighs. “What’s the matter? Why are you—?” As his hips met John’s, his mouth fell open in surprise. “Oh!”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock looked down at him and John didn’t like the gleam he saw in his eyes. “ _Oh,_ how interesting!”

Now John was really panicking. “Sherlock, get off me.”

“No, no, no, this is too good.”

John bucked his hips but that only made things worse. Sherlock dug his knees in and pushed back against John’s thighs. He could feel the heat from Sherlock through the thin material of his trousers all along the stiff line of his cock. _Oh God_. He was achingly hard. He clenched his teeth. 

Sherlock bent low over him, blue eyes sparking with curiosity. “Why is this happening?”

John fought to keep his breathing even. “It’s nothing. This has nothing do with—”

“With what? With me? With the fact that you clearly get off on us rolling around on the floor together? With tackling me to the ground?” 

Sherlock’s eyes were flickering over the contours of John’s face, as if the way John was looking at him held the answers to his questions.

John ground his teeth. “Maybe it’s to do with the fact that you’ve sabotaged all my recent attempts to find a sexual partner and so I’m just a little bit sexually frustrated.”

“That doesn’t explain why you got hard now.”

He looked up at Sherlock with fire in his eyes. “Maybe I got hard because you were _rubbing yourself against my cock_. You wouldn’t stop… squirming against me! What do you expect to happen when you do that?”

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “Not that.”

“Look, just drop it, Sherlock. Let me up. I’m really not in the mood.”

“Ah, but you are in the mood, obviously.” Sherlock grinned wickedly. “No, no this could be fun.”

“What could be fun? No, Sherlock, get OFF!”

“I just want to see what happens if I do this.”

Not releasing his hold on John’s wrists, Sherlock leaned down, and licked the length of John’s throat.

John sucked in a sharp breath, his chest arching involuntarily up off the floor. Sherlock’s weight was still pressing hot and heavy into John’s hips. He wanted so badly for Sherlock to move against him.

“Hmm, fascinating.”

John glared up at Sherlock, felt rage fill him to cover his embarrassment. “What do you think is going to happen? Jesus, Sherlock. Sexual stimuli. It’s not actually that complicated.”

“You’re right. Perhaps I should try something a little less traditional. For instance, something like this.”

Sherlock’s mouth returned to John’s neck, but this time he bit down sharply. John let out a cry that turned swiftly to a moan as Sherlock’s mouth began to suck the skin that he had bruised. His tongue came out and swept in a wet circle over the sensitive skin.

John couldn’t help himself. His eyes fluttered shut. He’d always been particularly sensitive to hickeys. He found himself tipping his head back to offer Sherlock more of his throat. His hands strained against Sherlock’s grip. He wanted to reach up and pull Sherlock down on top of him. _Oh, this was such a bad idea._

He tilted his head to the side as Sherlock’s mouth worked its way down his neck, sucking and biting softly. John made a helpless sound that he would have been embarrassed about had he been in his right mind. Instead, John made the sound again. He could have sworn he felt Sherlock grin against him.

“Where the fuck…” John gasped out, “Did you learn to do this?”

Sherlock pulled back for a moment, breathless. The feeling of his hot breath on the damp skin of John’s neck was torture. Now it was his turn to squirm under Sherlock.

“Oh, John. People always make the mistake of thinking I know nothing about sex. On the contrary, I’ve devoted quite a lot of time to studying people’s sexual responses and preferences. After all, it’s a huge part of what drives people. Hence, why I’m fascinated that you’re so sexually responsive to me. I aim to find out exactly why.”

“I told you,” John’s eyes opened, and he glared up at Sherlock. “Anyone who rubs themselves against my cock wearing nothing under his fucking pajama bottoms is probably going to give me an erection!”

“I think we both know that’s not the only reason.” Sherlock bent down once again to John’s ear. “I think you get off on being angry at me. I think you liked pinning me to the ground.”

“Of course, I liked it!” John struggled to ignore the heat from Sherlock’s mouth that hovered near his jaw. “You’re an insufferable git who deserves to be pinned to the ground! You also deserve a good punch in the mouth!”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to hit me and then push me to my knees, feel my bloody mouth around your cock.”

John bit back a moan as Sherlock’s mouth descended on the corner of his jaw and then dragged downward, teeth scraping the soft skin of his throat.

“No, I w-wouldn’t,” he gasped. “I don’t want that.” His hips lifted up against Sherlock of their own accord, desperate for more friction.

“Oh, but I think you do.” Sherlock’s mouth climbed higher and then paused hovering over John’s, and John could feel the unsteady rhythm of Sherlock’s breath against his parted lips. “I think that’s exactly what you want.”

“Fuck, just kiss me already.” John rose up against him, capturing Sherlock’s lips with his own. John felt Sherlock melt against him at the contact. He opened his mouth wide and found Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock let go of his wrists. His hands came down to hold John’s jaw. 

John seized the opportunity to pull Sherlock down against him, and then locking his legs around Sherlock’s back, he flipped their positions and rolled off of Sherlock. He crawled several paces away and rose to his knees, where he looked at Sherlock with a challenge in his eyes.

Sherlock sat up, and looked at John with a dazed expression on his face. “You sneaky little bastard.”

John could still taste Sherlock on his lips. He wanted so badly to grab Sherlock and push him to the ground and finish the kiss, but instead he climbed to his feet. “I refuse to be your experiment!”

“I never said you were.” Sherlock looked back at him, eyes glittering.

“If you want to kiss me, that’s fine. But don’t just do it to test my fucking responses to sexual stimuli!”

“What if I want to do more than kiss you?” There was something predatory in Sherlock’s gaze. He was crouching with one hand between his legs, long fingers just skimming the floor, poised for sudden movement.

John swallowed. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“I want you to hit me.”

“What?”

“Do it, John.” The expression in Sherlock’s eyes was making John’s pulse pound along the length of his cock.

“I don’t think—” 

Sherlock shot forward and grabbed a fistful of John’s hair. John let out a shout but Sherlock kept pulling until John was forced to bend backwards to follow the pressure of Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock stepped in closer, straddling John’s thigh between his legs, curling his body over John’s. He put his mouth against John’s neck and bit down, hard.

John snarled in response. His fist shot up and caught Sherlock in the cheek, knocking him off balance.

Sherlock staggered back a step. He looked at John and there was a flash of something in his eyes that made John’s heart pick up.

“Hit me in the mouth.”

John flexed the fingers of his hand. 

Sherlock straightened up and threw his shoulders back. “What—afraid?”

John hit him squarely in the mouth, not hard enough to do any real damage but hard enough to split Sherlock’s lip. Then, just to be thorough, he tackled Sherlock to the ground. 

He flipped Sherlock onto his front, and pulled his arm up tight under Sherlock’s throat. “Don’t. Fucking. Push me, Sherlock. Don’t do it.”

Sherlock reached up and pulled on John’s arm, with absolutely no effect. 

“You’re going to regret it.”

Sherlock twisted to the left and kicked John, hard, on the inside of his leg. John’s grip slipped and Sherlock flipped over and pulled John down against him.

“Alright, I’ll admit something.” Sherlock’s voice was rough. “I don’t actually care if any of this turns you on. It turns me on.”

His hands were fisted in the front of John’s shirt, his blue eyes almost entirely eclipsed by pupil. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to bend me over the coffee table and fuck the living daylights out of me.”

“ _What?_ ”

“If I had known you would be interested, believe me, I would have asked a long time ago.” 

John stared at Sherlock, his mouth hanging open in shock. Not ten minutes ago he wanted to beat Sherlock to within an inch of his life to get him to stop whining, now, hearing Sherlock’s proposition he found that bending Sherlock over the coffee table and fucking the living daylights out of him was exactly what he wanted.

His heart was pounding from the combination of adrenaline and sheer, heady arousal, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to think rationally for a moment. “Are you sure? I mean I want to. _God_ , I want to, but… well, I never thought… I’ve just never taken you for…”

“A desperate little bottom?” There was a smirk on Sherlock’s lips but his eyes were blazing. “Have I ever asked you for something I wasn’t sure about? Now, stop talking and _fuck me_.”

Using his grip on John’s shirt, Sherlock dragged John against him and kissed him hard, his tongue slipping in past John’s teeth. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands tightening on Sherlock’s upper arms. He could taste the coppery tang of Sherlock’s blood from his split lip and he ran his tongue over the cut, before sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth.

Sherlock made a desperate noise in response, his hips jutting forward into John’s, and for the first time John felt the swell of Sherlock’s erection against his hip.

John let his hands fall from Sherlock’s arms and pushed one hand down between them to trace the swell of Sherlock’s cock through his pajama bottoms. Sherlock was rock hard and as John’s fingers moved along his length, he felt damp material from where the tip of his cock was already leaking pre-come.

“ _Fuck_.” He let out a shaking breath against Sherlock’s cheek. “Jesus, if I’d known this was all it took to keep you from being bored…”

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock growled, thrusting his hips into John’s palm. “And touch me.”

John leaned back, his breath hot and unsteady against Sherlock’s cheek, and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. He pulled down slowly, watching the expression on Sherlock’s face as he did so, watched his eyes flutter shut, the long length of his neck lengthening as he tipped his head back. His lower lip was impossibly swollen and there was blood on his mouth. Unable to resist, John leaned forward and licked the corner of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned.

“John…” His voice was rough, pleading.

John thrust the material the rest of the way down Sherlock’s thighs and took Sherlock’s cock in hand, letting out a groan of appreciation as he did so.

He moved his thumb in a slow circle over the tip, before dragging his hand down to the base and then moving back up in a leisurely stroke. Sherlock made a low noise in his throat, hands coming up to grip John’s arms. John could feel him trembling.

John repeated the same movement, and heard Sherlock’s breath catch as he twisted his fingers slightly on the way up. He was amazed at Sherlock’s responsiveness. He’d never imagined Sherlock would be so sensitive—then again, he’d never imagined he would be standing in their living room with Sherlock’s cock in his hand either.

Then John had a very good idea.

He let go of Sherlock’s cock to guide them both down to the floor.

“Sit back. It’s my turn to do some experimenting.”

John pulled Sherlock’s pajamas the rest of the way down his legs and threw them aside. Then he pushed gently on Sherlock’s chest to get him to lean back, and settled himself between Sherlock’s thighs. He risked a quick glance up at Sherlock to appreciate this rare moment of submission—Sherlock was leaning obediently back on his hands, the pale skin of his throat flushed with arousal, looking up at John through lowered lashes.

John ran his palms up the insides of Sherlock’s thighs and then back down, dragging his nails lightly against the sensitive flesh. He was rewarded with a hiss in response. This gave John another idea.

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, wet and open-mouthed. He let his tongue glide over the spot and then bit down lightly, before dragging his teeth further up Sherlock’s thigh, toward the base of his cock.

Sherlock’s hips bucked and he made an inarticulate sound. 

John turned his attentions to Sherlock’s other thigh and repeated the action.

He could hear Sherlock gasping above him as his mouth slid along the sensitive flesh. He heard Sherlock make a frustrated noise and he sat back briefly to see Sherlock looking furious and hopelessly turned on. 

“Stop being such a fucking tease!”

John grinned. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

Sherlock threw him a withering look. “Try me.”

John bent down and very slowly slid his tongue over the head of Sherlock’s cock. He wrapped one hand around the base, keeping his other hand on Sherlock’s inner thigh. He felt Sherlock’s body tense as his tongue made a slow circle.

Flattening his tongue against the underside of Sherlock’s cock he wrapped his mouth around the head and swallowed the first few inches. He heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath, and lowered his mouth several more inches, hollowing his cheeks to create suction.

“You’ve clearly done this before,” Sherlock gasped.

“Everybody gets bored in the army,” John said, before dragging his tongue down the underside of Sherlock’s cock and eliciting a low moan. 

“ _Christ._ ” He glanced up to see Sherlock’s head tipped back, the muscles in his neck tensed and straining. John lowered his mouth again to encompass the whole of Sherlock’s cock and felt Sherlock’s hips rise to meet his mouth. His left hand was tracing light patterns into the skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, and he pressed down when he felt Sherlock’s hips thrust forward, increasing the suction from his mouth while holding him in place. “John!” Suddenly there was a hand in his hair, gently pulling him back. “Stop.”

John pulled back, panting, mildly disappointed. He had only just been getting started. But when he saw the dazzled look in Sherlock’s eyes, as if he’d been looking into the sun, he knew Sherlock was too close.

Sherlock sat up, breathing hard. “Top left dresser drawer in my bedroom. There’s a bottle of lube. Go get it.”

John didn’t think to question Sherlock’s command. He got so quickly to his feet he almost tripped, and ran to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Top left dresser drawer, top left dresser drawer.”

When he returned with the bottle in his hand, Sherlock had removed his remaining articles of clothing and was kneeling by the coffee table, completely naked. The sunlight streaming in through the window lit up the long lines of his body. John froze in the doorway, his hand tightening convulsively around the bottle of lube, overcome with the sight.

Sherlock turned to look at him, his expression impatient. “As much as I appreciate your lascivious gaze, I would much prefer your hands on me rather than your eyes.”

John came forward, stripping off clothing as he went, hands shaking with the intensity of his arousal. When he too was completely naked, he knelt close behind Sherlock but didn’t touch him. His eyes traveled down the length of Sherlock’s lean back, over the sculpted muscles of his buttocks. His hands hovered above Sherlock’s hips, still not touching. He felt his cock twitch at the thought of being buried in that gorgeous ass. Suddenly, his mouth was very dry.

“I’ve never done this with a bloke before.”

Sherlock pushed back with his hips, brushing the crease of his ass against John’s cock. John shuddered. “You’ll do fine. I’ll tell you what to do. Start with your finger.”

John let his hands fall to Sherlock’s hips at last, touching so lightly he felt Sherlock shiver at the contact. He traced the curves of Sherlock’s hips, his hands skimming down to cup Sherlock’s ass. As he bent forward to press a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck, he let his fingers dip into the heat between Sherlock’s legs.

He kissed his way up the side of Sherlock’s neck as he pushed the first finger in, appreciating Sherlock’s quick intake of breath as he did so. He kept pushing until his finger was submerged up to the knuckle, his mouth sliding along the skin of Sherlock’s throat and pausing to suck at the sensitive flesh. Sherlock made a sighing sound and leaned his shoulders back against John’s chest, baring more of his neck to John’s greedy mouth.

“Good. Now, bend your finger…” Sherlock gasped. “Yes. Like that, just like that…”   
John felt Sherlock’s body stiffen as he found the spot and then melt back against him as he began to stroke. John slid his free hand around to Sherlock’s front and spread his fingers low on Sherlock’s stomach, holding Sherlock against him. Sherlock’s head fell back against John’s chest. John felt a bolt of arousal shoot straight to his balls. Having Sherlock against him like this, so utterly at his mercy… he was almost convinced he could come like this, just from touching Sherlock.

“Add another finger.” Breathless as he was, there was something unmistakably commanding in Sherlock’s tone. The thought that Sherlock was controlling him just as much as he was controlling Sherlock made him even harder.

John added a second finger slowly wiggling them both once the second finger was as deep as the first. 

“Don’t move them,” Sherlock tone was sharp. “Add another.”

John did so, willingly. 

He found he was panting just as hard as Sherlock now. His cock was so hard it was aching, leaving a trail of pre-come where it was stretched taut against his stomach.

“Alright,” Sherlock bent at the waist and leaned his elbows on the coffee table. He handed John the bottle of lube from where he’d set it down. “I’m ready.”

John pulled his fingers out and snapped the bottle open, slicking the length of his erection with the cool liquid. He almost groaned as his fingers made contact with his heated flesh—he was already so far gone it was going to be a miracle if he lasted more than one stroke. Just the sight of Sherlock stretched over the coffee table with his thighs spread was too much.

“Sherlock…” John was embarrassed to hear his own voice shake. He licked his lips. “I’m worried I can’t… I’m worried I won’t last.”

Sherlock looked back at John over his shoulder. “Give me your hand.”

John leaned forward and offered Sherlock his hand. Sherlock took it and pressed a kiss to the center of John’s palm, his tongue coming out and licking warm and wet down the inside of John’s wrist. 

John suppressed a moan. “This isn’t…”

And then Sherlock bit down, hard, on the skin of his palm. John yelled and tried to snatch his hand back but Sherlock hung on, sinking his canines in until he drew blood.

“Sherlock, what the hell!”

Sherlock finally let go and John pulled his throbbing hand back to his chest, leaking blood.

“What in God’s name was that?”

“You were worried you were going to come too fast. How do you feel now?”

John glanced down at his erection and saw that it was flagging. The shock of the pain had taken the edge off his arousal.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Bastard,” he muttered. “You can’t just go around biting people.”

John couldn’t see his face but he was sure Sherlock was smirking. 

“If I get blood on you now, it’s your fault.”

Sherlock pushed his hips back against John’s erection. “Shut up and fuck me, John.”

Ignoring the doctor in him that was telling him to bandage his bloody hand, he put that hand on Sherlock’s hip, and used the other to guide his erection to the entrance to Sherlock’s body. He put the head of his cock against the puckered flesh and then very slowly pushed forward with his hips, stopping after the first inch.

He held his hips still as much as he wanted to keep moving. His voice was tight. “Okay so far?”

He could see the muscles in Sherlock’s back were clenched. “Keep going.”

John pushed the rest of the way in, slowly, slowly, until his thighs were flush against Sherlock. He groaned at the sensation of all that tight, hot flesh and was suddenly very thankful Sherlock had taken his mind off his erection even for a second. Otherwise, he would have come right then and there.

His hand was shaking against Sherlock’s hip. “Alright?”

Sherlock arched his back slightly and his answer was a sigh. “Yes. God, yes.” 

John took both of Sherlock’s hips in his hands. “You ready?”

The hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck was dark with sweat. John was seized with the sudden desire to lick the length of his back, but he held himself still, waiting for Sherlock’s response. Sherlock’s voice was breathless. “Fuck me, John. Give me all you’ve got.”

John pulled all the way out, before pushing slowly back in, the sight of his cock disappearing into Sherlock’s body almost too much for him to take. “ _Fuck_ , you feel good.”

Sherlock arched his back more and John thrust back into him, quicker than before, and this time, the angle was just right. Sherlock cried out when John found the spot, his hands gripping the edge of the coffee table. “Fuck! Yes! More.”

John pulled back and then ground forward with his hips, watching Sherlock’s shoulders flex in response. Sherlock made a sound like he’d been punched.

“Yes. Oh, _fuck_ , yes.” 

John repeated the movement, using his hold on Sherlock’s hips to deepen the angle further. Sherlock made the same low, guttural sound.

“Faster.” Sherlock pushed himself back against John’s cock, taking him deeper still. John gasped at the sensation, hands tightening on Sherlock’s hips. “Don’t fucking stop.” 

This time, John didn’t pause between strokes. He pushed in and out of Sherlock, fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips hard enough to bruise, reveling in the slick, velvety heat of Sherlock on his cock.

“Harder, John! _Harder_.” Sherlock was pushing back against him to meet his strokes. His shoulders were gleaming with sweat. “Come on, John!” There was something almost desperate in his voice.

John finally let himself go. He began to thrust into Sherlock hard and fast, his body slamming Sherlock’s forward into the coffee table with every stroke. Sherlock was gasping now, his breath coming in hard, sharp bursts, his hands braced beneath him.

“God, yes. _Fuck_ , yes. John—!” John could hear Sherlock coming undone just by the sound of his voice. He’d never imagined Sherlock would be so vocal, but _God_ , it was hot. He found himself fucking Sherlock harder in response to his cries. “Fuck! Don’t stop, oh God, don’t stop…”

He was begging, Sherlock was begging him, and at that realization, John felt the last ounce of his self-control vanish. Reaching forward, he raked his nails down the front of Sherlock’s chest, before dragging Sherlock’s hips up sharp against him, arching Sherlock’s back to an almost impossible angle to bury himself in Sherlock as deep as he could go. It took only two quick thrusts and then John was coming, holding Sherlock hard against him as he kept fucking, right on through each staggering wave of his orgasm. 

At the last sharp jab of his hips, he felt Sherlock tense beneath him, and he reached forward to take hold of Sherlock’s cock as he came, to feel the hot spurts of Sherlock’s come pulsing through his fingers. He hadn’t even touched Sherlock’s cock the whole time he’d fucked him and Sherlock had managed to come just from being penetrated. John was impressed.

He let himself fall forward onto Sherlock’s back, covering Sherlock’s body with his own as he floated his way through post-orgasmic bliss.

Sherlock didn’t push him off so John lay where he was, listening to the sound of Sherlock’s rapid breathing slow, feeling the sweat on Sherlock’s back sticking to his chest. He turned his face and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s sticky shoulder blade. 

“Holy shit,” he mumbled into the skin of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s face was pressed into his forearm, his voice equally muffled. “Indeed.”

Sherlock shifted beneath him, and reluctantly, John sat up, his thighs trembling violently as he moved back to sit on his knees. Sherlock turned over and John saw with a flash of guilt that his chest was marked from where he’d been slammed repeatedly into the table. However, he was secretly pleased to see several bruises already visible on Sherlock’s neck.

Despite the evident scratch marks on his chest and the disheveled state of his hair, all in all everything about his appearance which contributed to him looking like he’d been thoroughly fucked, his expression remained serene. John didn’t know how he did it.

Sherlock shook his sweat-soaked curls out of his eyes and regarded John coolly. “Thank you for that,” he said crisply. “That was exactly what I needed.”

John figured he should probably feel filthy and ashamed after what they’d just done, on their own coffee table nonetheless, but curiously, he didn’t. He felt relaxed and very, very pleased, happier than he’d felt in weeks, in fact.

“God, I could use a cigarette though.” Sherlock glanced longingly toward the skull on the mantelpiece.

“Not on your life.” John leaned back on his hands, feeling like the cat that got the cream. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that he was actually glowing. “Now I know what it takes to keep you entertained, things are going to be very different around here.”

Sherlock shot him a worried look and then narrowed his eyes.

“I feel much more inclined to forgive you now for this week,” John continued magnanimously. “I might even be able to forgive you for the bed sheets.”

“The bed sheets!” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you’re still—” He was interrupted by the sound of his phone.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and sidestepped gracefully around John to pluck it from the desk, far too gracefully for someone who’d just been fucked to within an inch of his life. Honestly. John sighed and shook his head.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, glancing at the screen. He stepped nimbly back around John without lifting his eyes from the phone. He was lowering himself to sit on the coffee table when he sprang back up with a shout. “YES!”

He thrust his fist into the air. Once again, a gesture that no naked man should be able to execute with any trace of dignity and Sherlock did it, looking like an emperor.

“A case, John! We’ve got a case!” He reached down and grabbed John by the hands, pulling him to his feet before John could protest. “Come on, get dressed! If we hurry, we can meet Lestrade at the crime scene. Oho! This should be a good one!”

John thought about resisting as Sherlock pushed him by the shoulders down the hall and toward the stairs. He desperately needed a shower, he hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, and his shoulder would be complaining soon after all that vigorous activity, but John found that he didn’t care. He didn’t even feel tired. Sherlock’s boost of energy was apparently infectious. He took the stairs up to his room two at a time, feeling more excited to go look at a dead body with Sherlock than he’d felt about anything else that had happened that week.

_Something is obviously deeply wrong with me_ , he thought, pulling on his jeans and rediscovering the bite mark in his palm from Sherlock’s teeth. _But at least whatever it is, it’s the same thing that’s wrong with Sherlock._

When he reemerged at the top of the stairs, fully dressed, he could hear Sherlock singing an aria in the front hall, off-key.

“Hurry up, John! You know Inspector Lestrade waits for no man!”

John threw himself down the stairs, grinning like an idiot.


End file.
